


Black Ice

by of_raven_wings



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Loki Angst, Loki Redemption, Porn With Plot, i don't even know where this came from, tasertricks - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_raven_wings/pseuds/of_raven_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy Lewis always wanted to fly.  When she finds a lake covered with ice in the midst of spring, she thinks that skating will be the closest she ever gets.  She doesn't know that something dark lies beneath the ice, something that will send her across the universe to a place where Loki is being punished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Infiltration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purplerhino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplerhino/gifts).



> This is what happens when I ask for prompts on Tumblr - kudos have to go to rhonilake on Tumblr for the prompt.
> 
> I kind of wrote this whole thing in the span of one day. Apologies for any typos or continuity errors, since I wanted to upload this and get it out of my head.
> 
> The prompt: ICESKATING IN SPRINGTIME. UNDER THE ICE IS DARK, ATOP IT BRIGHT AND FULL OF JOY. BUT THE ICE IS THIN.

Darcy always wanted to fly.

That is one of the secrets that she has never told anyone, one of the things she cradles close to her heart.

When she was young, she would sit in her bedroom window, watching the birds soar across the sky.  Her grandmother tried to teach her the names of the species, but they would never stick.  It didn’t matter what someone else called them, not really.  Because they could fly, and they were _free_.

She used to collect feathers, hold them in her hand and wish, eyes screwed so tight that they hurt, for her skin to turn to feathers, her arms to wings.  That she could be something more than she was.

It never happened, no matter how much she wished, no matter how much she _wanted_ it.  She wished on birds, on falling stars, on the man who fell from the sky.

Of _course_ Thor fell for Jane.  Not her.  Not Darcy.  No one ever noticed her, not really.  No one ever looked at her.

That has never changed.  Sometimes she thinks that it never will.

 

*

 

It is spring, but somehow the lake in the forest still holds ice.

She would come to this place as a child, on vacation with her family.  Her brothers would take turns ducking each other under the lukewarm water of the lake, but Darcy had always eschewed the water, preferring to spend her days wandering the woods themselves.  She would climb trees, making friends with each one.  Sometimes she would leave flowers, scraps of paper with notes scrawled on them.  Always hoping that someone would find them, leave a note for her.  Hoping that someone would _notice_.

No one ever did.

One evening, as she was searching for fairy rings in the woods, she found an old brass key.  It was twisted slightly, as though it had melted in the sun and reformed.  She had picked it up, taken it back to the cabin.  That night, while the rest of the family slept, she had padded into the kitchen, taken a piece of string from the drawer and looped it into a necklace to hold the key.  She had worn it there every day, just in case she found the door that it fit.

That is another secret: that she wears that key still, looped in a silver chain, the key itself tucked always beneath her clothing, pressed against her heart.  She always hopes that someone will ask her what she wears on that chain.  No one ever has.

She pulls the key out from beneath her sweater now as she approaches the lake.  It is unusually quiet for this time of year, all of the cabins in the woods empty but for the one she rented.  People have changed, since the attack on New York, since the Avengers.  They want to be close to each other, huddling in cities for safety.  It worried Darcy a little, the first night she came here, to be alone, with no one else around for miles.  Now, after almost a week, she is used to it.  She has not spoken to anyone for days.  Sometimes, in the dark of midnight, she wonders if she will ever speak again.  If anyone will notice if she did.

She had come down to the lake on the first day, noticed the ice.  She had thought it unusual, but had shrugged it off, assuming that it would melt after a few warm days.  Today, it is warm enough that she is too warm in her sweater and jeans, and yet the lake is still covered with ice.

A hand pressed to the ice reveals that it is solid.  And when she attempts to place some of her weight upon it, it holds.  She takes a deep breath, stands fully on the ice.  It holds.  It doesn’t even creak.

“Maybe it’s global warming,” she says.  The sound of her voice startles her.  It sounds like the voice of a stranger, too loud in this still place.

She slides a hand across the ice, her skin cooling from the contact.  Turns and goes back to her cabin.

 

*

 

The next morning, she comes down to the frozen lake again.  This time she is prepared for the warmth of the day, dressed in a light skirt and fitted shirt.  The warm air twines around her bare arms and legs, and everything smells of sunshine.  And yet the lake is still frozen, the ice, when she tests it, holding again beneath her weight.

Darcy Lewis had always wanted to fly.  And now, held in her hand, she had the means.

She had found the old skates in the back of one of the closets in the cabin.  They were old, the kind that you tied onto the soles of your shoes.  Lying in bed sleepless the previous night, she had tried to remember if she had ever seen that kind of skates before, failed.

Now, she sits down on the soft grass, ties the skates onto her hiking boots.  She feels faintly ridiculous in the skates with her summer clothes, but there is no one here to see her.  After a moment, she releases her hair from hr ponytail.  Removes her glasses, setting them carefully in the fork of a tree.  Without them, the world is in soft focus, everything a blur of green and blue and white.

Her steps are awkward as she moves down to the ice.  She learned to skate when she was young, but it is a skill she has not practiced for some years.  It takes her a while to find her feet, to trust the old muscle memories to take her through the movements.  Slowly, she eases into the motion, letting her feet slide over the ice again and again.

And then, all of a sudden, the movements come together, and she is spinning, _flying_.  

She is barely aware of her body, of the world, of anything but the exhilarating rush of warm air around her.  She closes her eyes from time to time, focusing only on that glorious movement.  For a heartbeat or two, she could swear that her arms have become wings, that there is nothing beneath her but air, that she is flying in truth.

She is so caught up in the rush that she doesn’t notice the first warning creak from the ice  Nor the second, nor third.

It is the fourth, and the loudest, that she notices.  She halts, looking down.  Without her glasses, the ice is a white blur.  She bends down, presses her fingers to the ice.  More cracks sound, these ones sharp as gunshots.  She slides her fingers over the ice, feels the coating of water, the ragged edges of cracks.

The last sound she hears is a series of crackling sighs, as though the ice itself is sounding its exhaustion.  And then the ice breaks, plunging her down into the darkness beneath.

 

*

 

She is falling.

It is cold, and it is dark, and the only sound is the small hissing sound her hair makes as it moves around her face.  There is no water here, just something like thin air.  But it is not air, not truly, but something else.  Something that slides like cold liquid against her skin, ebbing and flowing like the tidal breath of the universe.

She is falling.

She is falling.

And then there are hands around her waist, anchoring her.  

She looks up into green eyes, and then everything goes dark.

 

*

 

There is water everywhere.  Moving over her skin, pressing against her ears, forcing her eyes closed.  Sliding down her throat.

Darcy wants to scream, but she knows that if she does, the water will only thrust further down her throat, filling her like the empty vessel she is.  Knows that she will die.

The panic rises, but then there are hands on her face, the touch of skin replacing the touch of water.  

And then there is a voice, smooth as the velvet dark.  “Shhh, it is just the energy of the transition.  Open your eyes.  Just open your eyes.”

It seems to take every scrap of effort she has, but she manages to open her eyes.  She blinks once, twice.  Her vision does not clear.  Everything is dark.  Panic bubbles up in her again.

“I can’t see,” she says.  The words come out jagged as broken glass, her lips cracking with each one.

Those hands move, pressing down on her eyelids for a moment.  Something flares in the darkness, and when she opens her eyes, she can see again.  The hands move away quickly, and she stifles a small sound of frustration at their loss.

She is in what appears to be a small, windowless cell.  The walls are stone, the floor and ceiling as well.  In one corner an alcove with a wash basin and jug, and what looks suspiciously like a chamber pot.  In another, a narrow bed.

And standing as far away from her as the small room permits, is Loki.

She has seen his image on the news broadcasts, of course.  Then, he was all armour: leather and brass and anger.  Here, he seems younger.  Dressed in a dark green tunic, black trousers.  His hair is longer than in the news images, tangled around his shoulders.  He is standing, hands folded before him, his eyes on her.  His expression is closed.

“I didn’t realise you were so tall,” she says, and immediately wants to hit herself.

His eyebrows draw together.  In amusement?  She isn’t certain.  “I believe the traditional question is: ‘Where am I?’” he says.

“Well, that too.”

His lips move, forming something that is almost, but not quite, a tight smile.  “This is a place of punishment.”

“Real helpful answer there.”  She takes a deep breath, releases it slowly.  Turn and begins to run her hands over the walls.  She got in here somehow, which means that there has to be a way out, too.  

Loki watches her, only his eyes moving as she walks slowly around the cell.  “I can assure you that there is no means of exit.”

Darcy pressed her hands hard against a stone, jagging a nail against a rough edge when the pulls them away.  The nail tears down past the quick, and she swears.  When she sticks her finger into her mouth, she tastes blood.  “Well, then, how the hell did I get here?”

“As to that, my dear mortal, I was hoping that perhaps you could enlighten me.”

Darcy shrugs.  The movement makes the key beneath her shirt move against her skin.  The metal is cold.  “I was skating.  There was a frozen lake, and I was skating.”  The memory of cracking ice rises, and she shudders.  “Am I dead?  Is this Hell?”

“I can assure you, Helheim is nothing like this,” Loki says.  “For one, there is nothing like this view.”

Darcy frowns, looking around at the stone walls.  “Well, if you think that rock is interesting, then-“  She breaks off, feeling her cheeks heat as one side of his mouth rises in a smile.  “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”  He crosses to the bed, sits down, stretching out his legs.  “When I woke up this morning, I certainly didn’t expect Darcy Lewis to come crashing into my cell.”

She stares at him then, her skin flushing hot, then cold.  “You know my name?”

He just smiled in answer.

Darcy tilts her head to one side.  “I thought you’d be different.  All, rar with the horns and stuff.” She crooks her fingers above her head to imitate his helmet.

“Things, and I, have changed, Darcy Lewis.  Nothing stays the same.”

She takes a step away from the wall, intending to go god knows where.  As soon as she moves, a wave of dizziness washes over her.  She stumbles, and would have fallen, but Loki is there again, his arms closing around her.  He lowers her to the bed, so gently that she swears she can feel her heart contract.  Loki being gentle is something she never expected.

She is shivering, deep chills wracking her body.  “Why is it so cold here?” she asks, the words breaking between her chattering teeth.

Loki frowns then.  He pulls up the blankets to cover her, and moves back until he sitting on the very edge of the bed.  “You said you were skating?  In such clothing?”

“It was spring.  I don’t know why the lake was still frozen.”  She is shivering harder now, despite the blanket.  It feels as though she is frozen to the core, her bones cracking like the ice as she shakes harder and harder.  “And it was _dark_ beneath.  And then I was falling.”

Loki stills.  “Falling?”

She nods, and it only makes her shiver more.  She feels like she is on the brink of a seizure, on the edge of flying apart.  “Cold…”

He seems to notice how hard she is shivering, because he pulls the blanket up higher.  When his fingers brush her skin, he feels like fire, she is so cold.  He touches her forehead, cups her cheek.  She turns into his hand, seeking as much of his heat as possible.

“This shouldn’t even be possible,” he mutters.  “How could you have been drawn into this?  You are just a mortal.”

He goes to take his hand away, but she grabs onto him, presses her face back into it.  His face tightens, and then he slumps, as though he has resigned himself to something.  And then he is pulling back the blanket, lying down next to her, arranging his long limbs as best as he can on the narrow cot.  The small space squeezes them together, something Darcy barely notices as she presses herself into his warmth.  _Loki_ being warm, that’s something she never considered, she thinks as she heavy sleep rises around her.

The last thing she feels is him brushing her hair back from her face.

 

*

 

When she wakes, he is lying prone on the floor, hands folded over his chest.  His eyes are closed, as if he is sleeping, but as soon as she shifts her weight, they open.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, sitting up.  He looks curiously young, sitting there, all long limbs and angles.  “Warmer?”

Darcy pulls the blanket up around her, snuggling down into its folds.  There is a scent on the wool - something like leather, like smoke.  She realises belatedly that it is the scent of _Loki_ , the man who is supposed to be her enemy.  Pushes the blanket down again.

“I’m fine,” she says.  “I don’t even know what happened.”

Loki pulls himself up and moves across the room.  There is a tray on the floor, holding some kind of porridge, slices of something like apple, a clay cup of broth.  Loki picks up the cup, holds it out to her.

“I am not certain that this will taste good to you, but it is warm.”

Darcy takes the cup, sniffs it suspiciously.  It smells like beef broth.  She takes a sip; it tastes reassuringly normal.  Se is so hungry that she drinks it down quickly, looks mournfully into the cup, wishing there was more.

Loki is standing there watching her.  When she looks up, he gestures to the tray.  She is halfway through the food before she realises that she’s eating what is his food.  She pushes it away reluctantly.

“It was the aftereffects of being exposed to magic,” Loki says.  He sits down on the edge of the bed.  “You should eat.  The food helps.”

“What about you?  If this is a punishment, I don’t imagine they’re serving you gourmet meals three times a day, right?”

He smiles thinly.  “I can survive without rations for one day. Eat, Darcy Lewis.”

She does, and when the tray is empty, she feels better.  As she scrapes the last of the porridge from the bowl, the tray and its contents grow translucent, then vanish.

“Well, that was creepy,” she said.  She looks up at the ceiling, as though the mute stones can tell her something.  “Um, hi, whoever is out there poofing things in and out of existence.  You want to send me home?”

There is no answer.  She sits back on the floor, crosses her arms.  She’s growing cold now, but this time it’s just the chill rising from the stones combined with her thin summer clothing.  She wants to curl up in the bed again, but Loki is sitting on the mattress, and she is loathe to ask him to move.

As Darcy sits there, she grows aware of another signal from her body.  Her cheeks grow red, and she glances at the chamber pot in the corner.

Loki doesn’t miss it.  “I will turn my back,” he says.

She wants anything but to use the pot, but eventually, her body gives her no choice.  Loki turns his back, true to his word, though she is bright red, knowing that he can hear everything.  There are soft cloths next to the pot, which she uses.  Thankfully, the pot and its contents vanish in the same manner as the tray did, and a clean pot appears.

“Well, I hope you enjoy that, you freaks,” she says to the ceiling.  

Loki moves to sit on the floor, his back against the wall.  Darcy feels the cold rising up through her boot soles.  She realises then, that her skates are gone.  A brief panic flashes through her before she realises that the key is still nestled between her breasts.

“Um, we can both sit on the bed?” she offers.  “It’s not exactly comfy on the floor.  Cold.”

Loki smiles.  “The cold does not bother me, Darcy Lewis.”  His smile widens, and for a moment she swears that his skin turns _blue_.

“Still, if you change your mind.”  She sits down, pulls the blanket over her legs.  “I don’t bite.  Unless you ask me to.”

His eyes widen slightly, and then he is laughing.  And, to her surprising, he has a gorgeous laugh.  It’s musical as it echoes in the small space, and she realises then, too, just how beautiful his voice is.  And his eyes, especially now, twinkling with mirth.  And then she wants to kick herself again, because this is _Loki_ , the man who wanted to take over the world and make everyone kneel to him.

Except a small part of her mind is wondering now what it would be like to kneel before him, wondering how their heights would match up, what his skin would feel like against hers…

She shakes her head, presses her nails into her palms.  “So, is there any handy way to get me, like, out of here?  Back home?”

His laughter cuts off abruptly.  “They limit my magic here.  Enough to perform small acts only.  Such as allowing you to see in the darkness.  And to see without your glasses.”

She blinks.  “I’m seeing with magic?”

“There is no light.  It is part of my punishment.”

“But how do you see?  You’re not exactly walking into furniture.”

“I have had time to grow used to this space.  And sound is useful.”

She wants to ask how much time, but she is scared to hear the answer.  Far too long, she suspects, and wonders how he is not totally insane.  “So you can’t actually see me?”

“I can hear the way the air bends around you, and infer your shape from that, but in the way that you are inferring, no, I cannot see you.”

“So I could-“  She bites off that sentence before she can finish it.  _Could stand here naked and you wouldn’t know_ , her mind helpfully supplies.

Loki’s mouth twists, as though he hears the silent words.

“But they have to know I’m here, right?  They have to be watching, giving you food, taking away the chamber pot.”

“That, I do not know.  I have seen no evidence of them since I was shut away.”

Darcy wants to ask him more, but she can see that it is not something he wants to talk about.  “So, I’m stuck here?  With you?”

“It seems so.”

 

*

 

He insists on sleeping on the floor from the time they designate as the next “night” onwards.  Loki assures her that the darkness in the cell does not shift at all, though when she asks, he dims the spell on her eyes so the space appears to be flooded with thin moonlight when she wants to sleep.  Sometimes she does sleep.  Sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night and watches him, stretched out awkwardly on the stone.  In the moonlight, his skin is pale, the lines of his brows relaxed, his lashes curved against his cheek.  She realises that he is beautiful.  She has always gone for the football player type - brawny and blonde like Thor, but the memory of even him begins to pale now as she watches Loki night after night.

In his sleep, sometimes he curls up on his side, hands tucked into his chest.  Sometimes he dreams, making soft, sad sounds that make her want to gather him to her, just hold him, let him know that he is not alone, that someone sees him.

During they “days”, they talk.  There is nothing else to do but to talk, or to stare at each other or the walls.

He tells her of standing in the shadows beside Thor, of the promises Odin made to them both.  Both raised to be kings, but one throne only.  Later, he talks of his mother, Frigga, and of the magic that she taught him.  Even later, he tells of the fall from the Bifrost, the places he found, the pains.  Of the Other, he speaks little, but she can tell by the way he moves that there was torture, and worse.

Her own life seems so small in comparison, and at first she refuses to talk about it.  She has done nothing grand, has achieved nothing of note.  Loki proves himself silver-tongued indeed as he coaxes memories from her. Her childhood, the books she read, the music she listened to.  And, finally, the longing to fly, to be free - from what bonds, she never knew - to be seen.

On the day she confesses the last, they sit side by side on the bed.  They are comfortable together, she fitting into the space beneath his arm.  She is always cold, and glad for his warmth.  That, too, is a spell, he has told her, but she has never believed him.

“You wanted to be something other,” he tells her after she confesses of her desire to fly.  “To be more than what you were.”  He pauses.  “I wished that once, too.  But when I discovered what that more was…”  He swallows convulsively.  “Things did not go well.  For anyone.”

Darcy pulls away from him, enough that she immediately feels the lack of him against her skin. “This is to do with the whole heat thing?”

“It is.”  He pauses again, looking away from her.  “I…would you…”  He sighs, pulls away, stands.

For a moment he remains still, his back to her.  When he turns around, he is different.  He is _blue,_ his eyes glowing red, and there are raised lines, like scarification, on his skin.  

He stands there, his eyes downcast, his shoulders stiff.  “You can say it, Darcy Lewis.  I am a monster.”

“I don’t see any tentacles or anything, and you don’t have two heads.  In my book, that’s the minimum requirements for monsterhood.”  Darcy tilts her head to one side.  “I think blue’s a good look on you, actually.  It’s kind of hot.”

He blinks at her, those points of red flashing, and then the blue fades from his skin, his eyes emerald again.  “Hot?  I am a Frost Giant!”

“And I’m a political science major.  So what?”

He sits down heavily on the bed.  “That is not the reaction I was expecting.”

Darcy holds up her hands, makes a mock scared face.  “Grr argh.  Help, police.”  She grins.  “Better?”

To her surprise and delight, he laughs.  And he looks so much like a boy that it makes her laugh, too.  And she wonders if he has ever truly laughed like this before.

She punches him lightly in the arm.  “Bet your Momma still loves you anyway, blue boy.”

He stiffens at that, turns away.  “Frigga and Odin rejected me.”

“Oh, c’mon, from what you told me, it was only _Odin_.  Frigga taught you _magic_.  That can’t be taken away from you, not forever.  Hell, maybe it’s not even _possible_ for it all to be blocked, you have so much of it.  Otherwise, why would they even leave you anything here?  You’d think they’d block all of your magic, if they could.”  Darcy punches him again, lighter this time, her knuckles just grazing his sleeve.   She hesitates, then circles her fingers around his arm. “From everything you’ve told me, you were your mother’s favourite, anyway.”

He turns to look at her.  And there is so much warring in his eyes: the longing to believe her, the conviction that what he has told himself is true.  “Frigga is not-“

Darcy gives him no chance.  “Frigga was your _mother_.  She took you in, she raised you, she taught you magic.  Hell, I bet that she probably taught you how to fight, too.  It doesn’t matter if she gave birth to you or not.  She’s your mother, and she loves you.  Just as Thor loves you.  And will always be your brother.”

He is silent for a long time, his face turned away from her again.  It is only when Darcy moves forward on the bed that she sees the shine of tears on his cheek.  This time she doesn’t hesitate, just wraps her arms around him and pulls him close.  He holds back for a heartbeat, his muscles tensing, and then he falls into her arms, burying his face into her neck.  His skin is cooler, but she finds that she likes it just as much as she likes him warm.

Darcy rubs small circles on his back as he weeps, wave after wave of sobbing wracking him.  After a while, she finds that she is weeping, too.  Crying for the shadows he has lived in, the pain he has lived through.  For the life that he should have been living, bright as silver.

The light in the room fades and fades as he weeps.  When, finally, he lies still in her arms, it is completely dark, the spell wrung out of him along with the tears.  Darcy runs a hand down his arm, interlaces her fingers with his.  There are none of the ridges on the back of his hand that she saw in his Jotun form, so he has managed to keep hold of that mask, that spell, at least.

She listens to his breathing slow, wondering how it would feel to go through life wearing a mask, and worse, not even knowing that you were hiding.  How it would feel to have everything ripped away from beneath your feet.  

Loki is silent for so long that she begins to think that he has fallen asleep.  It is only when she tries to ease him down onto the bed that his arms close around her, holding her up.  He keeps his face pressed into her neck for a moment, and then he sits up, facing her.  She can feel his breath ghosting across her face, warm then cool then warm again, as though he carries the tide of the seasons within him.

Her left hand is still interlocked with his, his fingers pressed so tightly against hers that she can feel his pulse.  She raises her right hand up his other arm, feeling a small shudder go through him as she moves her fingers up to the junction of his shoulder and neck.  His breath comes faster as she trails her fingers across his pulse, up over the angle of his jaw.  She rests her fingertips on his lips for a moment, then glides them over the plane of his cheek.  There, she lets her hand rest, cupping his cheek in her palm.  She remembers him cupping her face in a similar fashion when she was wracked by chills; what moves through her now is not cold, but heat, spiralling in through her body, setting a pulse throbbing down low.

They sit like that for a long moment, breathing each other’s breath.  Darcy smells the salt of their tears, the smoke musk of him.  She can feel the uncertainty in him, and she can also feel how tightly he is holding her hand.  Like he is drowning, and she is the only thing that can save him.

She leans in and kisses him, just the barest brushing of her lips against his.

He takes in a sharp breath, his whole body shaking.  And then he is kissing her back, his hands sliding around her waist, pulling her so close her breasts are crushed against his chest.  He is shaking and hesitant only for a moment, and then he smiles against her lips.  And she feels herself melting, remembering how that smile looks.  She wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him down for a bruising kiss.

They pull apart, both of their breath coming ragged and uneven.

“Darcy, are you certain you want…”  He trails off, his voice growing uncertain again, for all that his hands are still firm on her waist.  “Me?”  She hears him swallow.  “After everything…”

“Are _you_ certain you want _me_?” she asks.  “I’m just a mortal, after all.  Not a goddess.”

His hand comes up to cup her face, his thumb brushed against her lips.  “No, you are more than that.  _Darcy_.”  And her name is like a benediction on his lips.

And then there is no more talk, just their arms around each other, his lips on hers.  Loki takes control now, sliding one hand around to cup the back of her head, directing the kiss.  When his tongue slides into her mouth, she can’t help but moan deep in her throat.  He makes a small sound, half groan, half chuckle, and pulls her around to straddle him.

Darcy is suddenly more than aware of her light clothing, of the fact that she only has her thin panties covering her.  Beneath her, Loki is already hard, his erection straining against his trousers.  It is her turn to chuckle lightly now, as she rocks her hips against him.  He gasps, and his fingers tighten around her waist, stilling her.

“So that’s how you play, is it?” she asks, nipping his lip between her teeth.

“Oh, you don’t even know the half of it.”  He laughs, and spins her around so she is pressed between him and the bed.

In one smooth movement he slides his hands up her arms, moving them up above her head and pinning her wrists with one hand.  His other hand slides down, ghosting across the side of her breast, one thumb teasing a curve beneath it, sliding down to her waist, her hip.  He grasps her thigh, pulls it up to his waist so she is pressed against him.  Leans back, as though surveying his work.

Darcy can’t help herself.  She sticks out her tongue at him.  And he laughs that glorious laugh again, before leaning in to kiss her again.

When they pull apart again, she is panting, rocking her hips rhythmically against him.  “That…is no fair.  How come you get to see me, and I don’t get to see you?”

He makes a perplexed sound before he realises that he released the spell earlier.  “Do you want to see?”

She presses her hips up against him, lining herself up so her clit is pressed up against his head.  “Maybe later.  It’s kind of nice like this.”

She hears him smile.  “You could blindfold me, if you wished.”

Now she laughs, low and deep in her throat.  “Maybe later.  It’s not like we’re going anywhere.”

Then there is no breath for speech as his mouth comes down hard on hers, his tongue moving in and out of her mouth in a maddening rhythm that only makes her think of other things that she wants him to do to her.  She rocks against him, faster and faster, the tension building within her, and she is so _close…_

And then suddenly he is gone, leaving her reaching up to nothing.  She makes a frustrated mewling sound, and across the room, he laughs again.  

“It’s not going to be quite that easy,” he says, crawling back onto the bed so he is on all fours above her.  “I intend to take my time with you, Darcy.”

The tone of his voice is enough to make her arch up to him, craving his touch.  Craving _him_.  For a long time, he stays where he is.  She doesn’t move, knowing that this is part of what he wants, what he needs.

When his touch comes, it is featherlight: fingers brushing against the inside of her knee, sliding softly along her inner arm, just barely touching the tiny hairs there.  When he finally grasps the hem of her shirt and pulls it up over her head, she feels like she is vibrating.  He removes her skirt, as well, leaving her in just her underwear.  He kneels between her legs, then, his breathing loud in the small room as he looks at her.

“Do I have to get you that blindfold now?” she asks.

He chuckles, and then, finally, his hands are on her.  He traces the curve of her hips, her waist, sliding his fingers up her ribs.  There, he traces the fabric of her bra, fingers delicate on the lace.  She knows that he is watching every small movement he makes.  She smiles, and deliberately she raises her hands above her head, placing her wrists in the same position that he put them in earlier.  Giving him full permission to do whatever he wants.

He makes a small, choked sound, deep in his throat.  And then his lips follow the path his fingers have taken, pressing small kisses to the apex of her hip, the hollow of her waist.  Then he traces the line of her bra, tongue flicking out to taste her skin now and then.  He breathes cool air across the trail he made, and she shivers, goosebumps moving across her skin.  He leans down to nuzzle the space between her breasts, and she feels the curve of his smile against her skin.  He presses a kiss to her breastbone, then moves lower, making a small sound as his lips encounter the key.

“What is this?” he asks, lifting the key on its chain.

Darcy feels herself flush.  “It’s kind of stupid.”

He rocks back on his heels, and she can just imagine the look he’s giving her.

“When I was a kid, I was always looking for ways into other worlds.  You know, faerie, that kind of thing.  I found that key in the woods, and for some reason, I always thought I’d find the door that it fit one day.”

He is still holding the key in his hand, his fingers running up and down the metal.  Darcy hesitates, then reaches back and unclasps the chain.  Clasps it again around his neck.

“For luck,” she says.

When he moves back down to her, there is no finesse, his game forgotten.  There is only his mouth moving over her, laving her nipples through the lace of her bra, drawing each one to a hard nub.  He sucks hard, and she groans, arching up to him, wanting to feel more of him against her.  Wanting skin against skin.  

It is Darcy who reaches around to unhook her bra, who slides her panties down her legs.  She realises then that Loki is still fully clothed, and tears ineffectually against the maddening laces of his tunic for a moment before he helps her.  His own haste in unclothing himself makes her smile, and then he is naked against her, his mouth against hers again, and she thinks of nothing at all about him: his hands, his lips, the long leanness of his body against hers.

She feels his hardness against her thigh, and then he is making small thrusting movements against her skin, his breath catching, half choked in his throat.  She smiles again, and kisses him, hard.  When he is distracted, she uses her weight to flip him over, straddling his hips, careful to keep her body away from him.  This time it is Darcy who pins his arms above his head, leaning close enough that he can feel the heat of him, but no more.

“I intend to take my time with you, Loki.”

He makes that small choked sound again.  “Say it again.”

“I intend to take my time?”

He shakes his head.  “My name.”

“ _Loki_.”  She pauses, considers.  “Can I have just enough sight to see your face?  Like moonlight around the edge of curtains?”

It comes on slowly, the light, as though the moon is rising outside some unlit window.  Darcy kneels back on the bed, just looking at him.  His skin is pale, his limbs long and banded with lean muscle.  He watches her as she looks at him, and his eyes are dark pools.  His tongue comes out to wet his lips, and then he smiles that glorious smile.  When she leans down to kiss him, he flips her over again without breaking the kiss, and then it is him kneeling over her, his eyes moving over her body.

“I see you, Darcy Lewis, and you are beautiful,” he says, leaning down to kiss the hollow of her throat.  “Beautiful.”  He kisses both breasts.  “Beautiful.”  Her navel.  Then he looks up at her, and _grins_.  “ _Mine_.”

Then his mouth is on her, licking a long line up her, tongue flicking against her clit.  She makes a sound in her throat when he swirls his tongue against her; she isn’t certain if its a moan or a sigh.  Then he is sliding his fingers into her, moving them slowly, then quickly, a maddening rhythm that brings her to the edge, drops her back, again and again, until she is moving erratically beneath him, hands fisting in his hair, _needing_.

He pulls back, breathing suddenly cool air against her.  His hands slide around her hips, holding her down, and then his mouth is on her again, his tongue flicking against her clit, harder, faster, and then she is shattering beneath him, falling apart.

Loki slides up over her, just holding her for a moment, his hand pressed to her heart.  She allows herself a moment to lie there, boneless, and then she turns onto her side, pulling him to face her.  He moves his hand down her side, hooks her thigh around his waist, presses his lips to hers.  She tastes her own musk on him, and it sends a fresh wave of heat deep into her.  She rocks against him, feels him hard against her.  He moans, deep in his throat, and she reaches down, curls her fingers around the length of him, slides them up and over once, then lines him up to her entrance.  Uses her thigh around his waist to pull him in.

He moans again as he sinks into her.  Hold there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against hers, looking directly into her eyes.  She sees him bared there: the boy in shadows, the man hidden, lost down twisted paths.  Darcy blinks away sudden tears, presses everything she feels into a deep kiss, wanting to slide beneath his skin, show him the way she sees him right now.

When he begins to move, there is no finesse.  There is just raw need, his hips moving in a syncopated rhythm against hers.  She reaches down to pull him deeper still, and he slides his hand down, entwined his fingers with hers.  He keeps his hand like that as his thrusts speed up, and then he jerks hard against her, once twice, and she feels him spill inside her, hot and cold at once.

They stay like that in his magicked moonlight, Loki moving only to pull the blanket up to cover them before they both slide into sleep.

 

*

 

When Darcy wakes, the light is blinding, and she is cold.

She blinks, the layers of sleep falling away slowly.  For a moment, she is confused, knowing something is missing, but not knowing what.  Then she realises: Loki is missing.

One wall of the cell is gone, replaced by an empty space.  Footsteps approach, and then a figure appears in the blackness.  It is robed and masked, impossible to tell who or what resides within.

“Where is he?” Darcy asks.  She looks for her clothes, but they are gone.  Loki’s too.  All that remains of him is his scent on her skin.  “Where is Loki?!?”

“The trickster has been assigned a new punishment,” the figure says.  The voice is hollow, without inflection or emotion.

“A new punishment?”  Darcy doesn’t care about being naked now.  She is out of the bed, standing in the middle of the cell.  “Bring him back!!”

The masked figure says nothing.  “You will be returned.  Unharmed.”

Darcy takes another step.  Intending what, she doesn’t know.  She isn’t given a chance to find out, because the figure reaches out a hand and touches her lightly on the side of the head.

Everything goes black.

 

*

 

Darcy wakes again, and this time it is to the warmth of the spring sun.

She is lying on the sandy bank of the lake, naked.  As she tries to get up, nausea twists in her.  She bends over and retches, but nothing comes up but thin bile.  Every inch of her skin feels bruised, and she feels as though everything inside has been scooped out, leaving her a husk.  Empty.

She raises her hand to her face.  She can still smell Loki on her skin.  Still feel his seed drying sticky on her thighs.

The lake is liquid, no sign of ice, no sign of darkness beneath.  She is alone.  More alone than she has ever been in her life.

She is walking back to her cabin when she realises that the key is also gone.  She presses her fingers against the place between her breasts where it had always rested, looks up to the sky.  She will find him.  She doesn’t know how, but she will find him.

A wind picks up as she walks, and the air moving against her skin feels like feathers, feels like she is flying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Sublimation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I had to add this on. The story was not finished and did not leave me alone.

Days pass.

Darcy goes back to New York.  She works with Jane for a time.  She works as a secretary.  She works as a personal assistant.  She does not finish college.  It doesn’t seem to matter now.

And every night, she dreams of being back in that cell, back with Loki.  Feels his hands on her, his kisses on her lips. Every morning she wakes reaching for him, but he is never there.

 

*

 

Sometimes she dreams that she wakes as they are taking him from the cell.  That she grasps his hands so hard that she pulls him back into that blackness, somehow, and then they are both swimming up through the blackness of the lake.  They come up against the black ice, but Loki just smiles, presses his lips to hers, then pulls them up into the air, the ice flowing around them as though it was water.

She always wakes up before they fly.  For that mercy, she is always thankful.

 

*

 

She does not wear any jewellery now.  _Cannot_.  Sometimes she can still feel the key between her breasts, finds herself reaching for it, and she wonders if he still has it.  Wherever he is.  She sits outside at night, sleepless, just looking up at their light.  Hoping that somewhere out there, he is looking back at her.

Someone tells her that the light from the stars is aeons old, that at least some of the stars she can see are already dead, their light echoing through space even though its source has been extinguished.  Her heart twists in her chest, and she says nothing in reply.

 

*

 

One night, soon after she came back, she goes out, finds someone for the night.  Hopes that the feel of strange hands on her body will help.

He is enthusiastic enough, but she feels nothing, lying beneath him.  She cries, after he comes.  He doesn’t notice, just gathers up his clothes and leaves her alone.

 

*

 

As the days pass, she wonders more and more if it ever happened.  She tells no one, not even Jane.  Everyone thinks Loki to be a monster.  She sees his image on posters sometimes outside churchs, the new devil used to scare people into attending.  Sometimes, at night, she sneaks out and tears them down, shredding the paper to tiny pieces like snowflakes.  The next morning, they are always replaced.  Nothing she does changes anything.  Soon she stops bothering, and every time she sees one of the posters, she simply turns away.

 

*

 

Months pass, then years.  

Then, one day, the Bifrost is opened again.  Jane waits with Darcy in the desert.  She chose this place, of course.  The place where Thor first fell out of the sky.  Jane tried to goad Darcy into bringing her taser.  Darcy didn’t laugh.

When the storm comes, Darcy looks away.  When she looks back, she sees Jane and Thor embracing.

She waits, the space between her heartbeats stretching out and out, hoping and hoping.

No one else comes.

 

*

 

Life flows past Darcy, a river that moves on and on, passing her by.

She watches people as they marry, split, have children, die.  Towers and built, towers fall.  Wars are fought, lost and won.

She keeps working, saving as much as she can.  When she has enough, she buys all of the cabins around the lake.  She does not go there, but she sends someone once to install cameras and equipment to monitor temperature, air pressure.  The systems are set to alert her if ice forms again on the lake.  It never does, not even in the deepest cold of winter.  

 

*

 

When the headaches start, she shrugs it off, keeps working.  

She is back assisting Jane, a circle closed.  Jane heads up her own division in Stark Industries now, has so many people working for her that she cannot keep track.  She claims that it does her good to have Darcy around, someone who was there when everything began.  They work on wormholes, on the technology to send people farther into space.  The day they successfully produce the first vortex, everyone is amazed by how black it is.  Not Darcy.  She has seen it before.

She doesn’t even hope, this time.  Just looks away, gets on with her work, pops another handful of aspirin.

It is Jane who sends her to the medical team, commenting on how much weight Darcy has lost.  There are tests, too many doctors frowning and nodding and plastering their faces with insincere smiles.

In the end, they all stop frowning, stop smiling.  Tell her that it is a new kind of cancer, one that they associate with the radiation experienced by long periods in space.  They frown again as they wonder where she was exposed.  There is an investigation into Jane’s work, monitoring in the lab round the clock.  It finds nothing, of course.

The night before she leaves the lab for the last time, Jane and Darcy drink a bottle of wine together, talk in the way they used to.  Tipsy and maudlin, Darcy finally tells Jane everything.

 

*

 

When the doctors give up, Darcy goes, at last, to the cabin by the lake.  Jane worries, insists on a nurse.

The cabin is the same as it had been on that vacation, long ago.  She never had any of it changed, only sent in someone to clean it the week before she arrives, makes sure that there is food, medical supplies.

It is the same, but it is not the same.  There are rails along the walls, in the bathroom.  There are IV poles clustered like a strange white forest next to the bed.  There is a wheelchair inside the door.

The nurse is installed in a neighbouring cabin, coming by to organise Darcy’s meals, to check on her at sunrise and sunset.  There is a red button that Darcy wears around her neck, for emergencies.  It rests in the same place that the key pendant did, once upon a time.

In the mornings, when it is fine, Darcy has the nurse wheel her down to the edge of the lake.  She sits there for hours in the soft spring sunshine, staring out of the water.  The medication makes her mind fuzzy, eats at her memories, to the point where she no longer even remembers what she is waiting for.

She goes down there every day when she can, all the same.  And when she dozes in the sun, she always dreams of falling through the black.

 

*

 

The nurse places a small bunch of dandelion clocks into Darcy’s lap, smiles the smile that has been growing thinner with every day.

Darcy saw the way the woman frowned when she did Darcy’s medical checkup that morning.  Knew, without asking, that the results were not good.

“Jane called again,” the nurse said, setting up the little desk next to Darcy’s chair.  Water, her phone, food that she cannot eat.  Her glasses, which Darcy does not wear often these days.  She prefers the world to be out of focus.  The nurse tucks a blanket around Darcy’s knees, frowns again, then adds another.

“I don’t want to see her,” Darcy says. Her voice is foreign to her, more whisper now than anything else.  “She doesn’t need to remember me like this.”

The nurse nods slowly.  “It’s a common reaction.”  She tucks the blanket in.  “Is there anything else you need?”

Darcy shakes her head, feeling the bones of her skull shift against the chair.  Knows that when the nurse gets her up, there will be clumps of hair left behind.  She always makes the nurse blow them into the wind, likes the idea of parts of herself being seeded across the woods.  Leaving something of herself behind.

“Will I die today?” Darcy asks as the nurse tests the emergency button around Darcy’s neck.

The nurse looks away.  “There’s no predicting it.  Cancer can be a fickle thing.”  She tucks the button within Darcy’s reach.

The nurse leaves, and Darcy settles back in her chair, closes her eyes.  Spring is beginning to fade, giving way to the first cool breezes of winter.  It seems appropriate, somehow.  She wonders if the lake will freeze over once she is gone.

She is sliding into something like sleep when the touch comes.  Gentle, so light that at first she thinks it is just the breeze stirring against the bruised place on the back of her hand where too many IVs have blown.  When it comes again, this time on her cheek, she stirs, opens her eyes, expecting the nurse.

She stares for a moment at the man who stands there.  Without her glasses, he is a blur of light and shadow.  She fumbles for them, and they slide from her numb fingers, fall to the grass.  He kneels, picks them up, slides them onto her face.

He comes into sharp focus, and she sees his green eyes, the unshed tears shimmering there.

Movement behind him in the woods: Jane and Thor, watching.  Jane nods once, then takes Thor’s arm and leads him away.

Darcy says nothing.  Can think of nothing to say.  She wants to reach up, to take Loki into her arms, but her body is too weak, too sick.  She can only lie there, looking at him.

“Took your time,” she manages finally in that rasping voice which sounds nothing like her own.

He smiles that beautiful smile, and she feels something crack inside of her, as though her heart itself is bleeding.  He kneels down, and his hands are so gentle as he lifts her from her chair, pulls her into his lap as easily as though she was a child.  He cradles her against his chest, and she presses her ear to his sternum, listens to the steady thudding of his heart.  Beneath the tunic he wears she can feel a familiar shape: the key she gave him.  She smells salt on the air, doesn’t know if its from her tears or his.

“It was Jane,” Loki says, his voice vibrating through his chest as he speaks.  “She told Thor.  And Thor - my _brother_ , he appealed to my mother, my…my father.  Told them what had happened between us, how you accepted me.  They had me freed.  _Odin_ had me freed.”  He looks down at her, trails a finger across the sharpness of her cheekbone.  “Almost too late.  My Darcy.  My love.  _You_ freed me.”  He slides the key out from beneath his tunic, loops it around Darcy’s neck again.  It is warm from contact with his skin.  

Darcy finds it hard to move now, harder to breathe.  She presses her face into his chest, as much as she can, inhales the scent of him.  And right now, it’s enough, knowing that he is free, that he, at least, has this.  That she has given him this.

“It is _not_ enough,” he says, his voice choked.  He leans down again, kisses her gently.  “You never got to fly, my love.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper now. 

He cups her cheek in his hand, his skin warm against hers.  “Not quite.  My mother sends you a gift.”

He pulls from his pocket a small, golden apple.  Hold it out on the palm of his hand.

“One of Idunn’s apples,” Loki says.  “They heal, grant life.”

He presses the apple to her lips.  It smells sweeter than any apple she has ever known, and she inhales deeply.  It takes all of her will to open her mouth, to take a bite, chew and swallow.  Each bite becomes easier, until there is nothing but the seeds, which Loki slides between her lips one by one.  Then he kisses her again, more deeply this time, and she is able to rise up to kiss him back, to loop her arms around his neck and hold him close.  He presses his face to her neck, the same way he had long ago in that cell.

For a long time they stay like that, just holding each other.  Then she feels him smile against her skin.

“And now, my love, we fly,” he says.

He wraps his arms around her, and she feels his magic surrounding them.  Together, they rise from the ground and fly.


End file.
